by Kait Carson
Gliding over the roof, he shown the bright underwater spotlight he’d brought with him down into the cabin. He noted some damage to the coral that rimmed the hole, but nothing to indicate the extent of the trauma he expected if an anchor had broken through. He swam over the side of the wheelhouse and entered through the old front window.
Even though the artificial reef program and the navy gutted the ship before she sank to make it safe for divers, there were plenty of little hidey-holes. Things were different underwater. Spaces looked both larger and smaller. In the corner near the body’s location, he spotted a shiny object. Swimming closer he saw a black-handled dive knife. Reaching out a gloved hand, he picked it up and inspected it. It looked like it had been down there a while. Shining his light around the same area, he found a spent spear from a spear gun, a fishing lure, two beer cans, a couple of quarters, and a pair of EMT shears divers use. He picked up the sheers, leaving the rest of the items behind. Current eddies must have swirled the stuff into the corner. Whatever he found, it would be hard to prove it belonged to the dead man.
Taking his time, he began to swim the familiar grid search pattern. He mentally divided the cabin into a series of squares and swam each one meticulously. He shone his light over every inch of the wheelhouse. There was nothing more to see. He exited through the door and swam around the side, looking for damage to the coral that might indicate the anchor and the man were dragged in. He saw nothing. He swam to the ascent line and checked his computer.
Looking up through the clear water as he made his ascent, he saw a boat tied on to his stern. He was grateful that whoever the divers were, they were waiting for him to regain his boat before they began their dive. That way he could leave and let them hook the buoy. He made a mental note to check the buoy tied to the stern of the wreck. With two buoys, divers rarely double-parked unless they were together. If the buoy showed damage or was missing, he would include it in his report. When he reached the marker for his safety stop, he saw the State Law Enforcement legend indicating the boat belonged to the FWC flickering through the water waves on the side of the boat behind his. Completing his stop, he rose slowly to his boat, careful to approach from the side furthest from the patrol boat. He pulled himself silently along the line he’d strung from his swim platform to the tie-on line he held in his hand. Silently he mounted the ladder to the stern.
He saw flowers scattered on the surface of the ocean. He recognized Janice, but didn’t know her companion. The two women in the patrol boat were too preoccupied to notice the man standing over them. His silence paid off and the women continued talking while he listened intently, until interrupting them.
“You can’t sit on this information, Janice.”
“Oh, Paul.” Janice’s face reddened. “You frightened me. This is my sister, Elena. Elena, this is Lt. Paul Muller. He’s with the Coast Guard. He was the one who found Richard.”
Giving her attention back to Paul, she said, “It wasn’t what it sounded like. My sister had nothing to do with her husband’s death.”
Paul greeted the statement with a cynical look, but said nothing.
Elena gave a watery smile. Paul casually held his position on the rolling boat. His eyes lasered into the two women, seeking the truth beneath the story.
“I’m sorry, I...I...wanted to see where my husband...This is awful. I don’t know.” Elena stumbled over her words and emotions. Her face was wet with tears.
Paul saw the woman’s blotchy face and felt a pang of pity. She had reason to grieve. And clearly, she’d convinced her sister to bring her out to pay some kind of tribute to her husband. Elena looked nothing like Janice. Her fair hair and light complexion contrasted with her sister’s dark one. He could believe Janice was Cuban. Elena, with the Spanish name, no way. Genes were funny.
“You 10-8?” He asked, using the 10 code for on duty.
Janice nodded her head. “You?”
“No. I came out here on my own. I wanted to look around again, see if I missed anything first time out. I take it you identified the body?” Paul saw Janice pull her sister around behind her. It looked like she was trying to protect her. But from what? Janice had risked her job. She should’ve thought to protect herself first.
He saw Janice swallow hard. “Yes.” She nodded. “I identified the body that night and I informed my sister.”
Paul noticed Janice’s eyes darting back and forth, as if they were looking for something. Classic indication of a lie, learned it in Cop College 101. Made no sense. What would she lie about?
“Elena,” Paul said. “I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t know your husband but I’ve heard a lot about him. I know it’s small comfort, but we will have a report soon. Your sister’s agency, the Coast Guard, and the Sheriff’s office are all working together to determine how your husband died.”
“It was an accident,” Elena spoke firmly, each word separated as if testing the English. “But I feel guilty.” The woman looked out over the water. “I fought with him, and he never came home.”
Her eyes met Paul’s and he saw only grief and candor there, no guilt. Maybe her “confession” was nothing more than drama.
“An accident,” she repeated.
“Yes,” Paul said gently. “We hope it was an accident. But we want to be thorough. Richard deserves that.”
“You hope? What do you mean, hope? Richard was not the best of men. He could be hard and violent. He was difficult sometimes, but he had no enemies. Don’t believe a lot of what people tell you. Go to those who know him. My Richard, you can’t learn of him after his death.” Elena steadied herself on the Captain’s leaning post behind her sister.
“Have you taken her statement?” Paul asked Janice.
“No.”
“Why are you contaminating her testimony? You shouldn’t be bringing her out here like this. You, of all people, should know you have to stand back now. Why haven’t you had someone take her statement?” Paul’s hand flew out as he spoke, his fingers pointing at Janice, each word emphasized with a jab of his hand held in a karate position.
“You’re right. I can’t argue and I’m not going to take a statement. No one contacted her. They’ve all left her alone, thank God. I don’t think she’s in any shape to give a statement yet.”
“You are her sister,” Paul said. Each word sounded harsh and separate. “You cannot be involved. Does your agency know your relationship to the deceased? They can’t let you stay on and continue to contaminate this case.”
“No. It’s my case. I caught it and I’ll keep it.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll contact your agency and bring them up to speed.” He waved a hand in her direction. He saw fear in Janice’s eyes. And something else he couldn’t identify. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle how I phrase it, and I won’t mention you were out here with her.” His face softened. “That’s a family matter.” He pointed a stern finger at her, “But it doesn’t make it right.”
Janice seemed to deflate before his eyes. He thought he’d have to jump the stern to her boat and support her. This woman needed a couple of days off to get herself back in control. If anyone asked him, he’d say she had a tenuous grip on reality right now.
“Elena, Mrs. Anderson,” he corrected himself, “if you don’t mind, I’ll call you later today to come over and speak with you. Will that be all right?” He tempered his voice, softening it to almost a purr.
“No, no, I’ll be very busy. I have to wait until my sister can be there too. Right, Janice?” She looked at her sister, her eyes beseeching, even coaxing the answer she wanted. “I have to have you there too, right?”
“Elena.” Janice touched her sister’s shoulder. “He’s right. Someone will have to talk to you. I can be there today, if you want. I’ll come and be with you.”
“I’d rather not have you there,” Paul said.
�
�Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “She’s my sister.”
“Sorry. A lawyer, sure, but not you.” Paul was adamant.
“Lawyer, why do I need a lawyer? Janice, you didn’t tell me I needed a lawyer.” Paul was interested to note that Elena’s voice had an edge of panic to it now. A thrill coursed through his body at the sound of her fear.
Thirteen
The cutter barely noticed the six to eight foot seas in the Straits of Florida. Paul leaned his forearms on the bow rail and closed his eyes in the night vision goggles. No matter how many times he wore them, the greenish glow that colored his vision took some getting used to. There was no moon tonight. The stars shown like mini klieg lights and the sea shot sparks of phosphorescence over the water. He straightened on the dark boat and moved his head to scan the horizon. Behind and above him on the shooting platform a gunner stood at the ready with the FN M240 machine gun. Overhead on the bridge deck an ensign stood at a spotlight watching for a signal from one of the spotters. All of the men and women on the deck wore night vision goggles. Summer was smuggling season. The calmer seas in the Straits of Florida attracted drug runners and human smugglers alike. Both usually rode in thirty or forty-foot go-fast boats. Both carrying whatever cargo was likely to turn a profit.
Paul shifted restlessly. He preferred the smaller command of the Coast Guard drug boats. He loved feeling the speed of the boats over the water while the adrenaline pumped through his veins. Tonight, he was confined to the slower cutter. Even if they caught someone, the fun would belong to someone else. The intercept speedboats didn’t have enough space for captured refugees, forcing the smaller boats to stand by and wait for a larger vessel like the cutter to arrive. The smuggling numbers were so high this summer that Station Islamorada had a cutter on loan from Station Key West for night patrols.
A flash of movement off the port beam caught Paul’s attention. Keying the radio he wore clipped to his belt, he confirmed the sighting with one of the port watchers. The two men kept up a whispered communication until they identified the small boat as a go-fast bouncing over the waves of the Straits. A crackly voice broke into the conversation.
“Go-fast sighting confirmed,” the spotlight operator whispered. “Captain says it looks like a smuggler operation.”
“How many souls?” Paul asked.
“Not sure, too far away and bouncing too much. Doesn’t seem to be much space between the bodies though.”
The men moved to battle stations to prepare to intercept the boat. If it continued on its course, it would cross approximately one hundred and fifty yards from the bow of the cutter. Paul knew the boat was too low to track on radar.
That was what made the go-fast boats so popular. The interception depended on luck or information. Since most smugglers received in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars per person from relatives seeking to bring their loved ones over, tipsters were few and far between. Luck ruled the high seas on these nighttime runs.
To avoid the sound blast from the machine gun, Paul moved away from the bow and onto the port side of the vessel. He cautiously removed his night vision goggles and gave his eyes a few seconds to adjust to whatever ambient light was at sea. He picked up the night vision binoculars from around his neck and focused on the boat. His heart pounded as he heard the engine’s deep throaty roar. The boat was moving at top speed. So far, it didn’t look like the driver saw the patrol boat. Then the go-fast slewed sharply to the starboard.
“He’s got us,” Paul shouted into his radio. The throb of the cutter’s engines vibrated under his feet before he finished his sentence. The cutter, no match for the overloaded go-fast, moved off with as much speed as it could muster. The speedboat began to carve a sinuous path into the sea.
“Damn him,” Paul said to the man standing next to him. “Doesn’t he realize how dangerous he is? Look at all the people on board.” He shoved the binoculars toward his companion.
“He’s got to have at least thirty. It looks like an open forty-footer. He’s gonna dump some folks for sure.”
The cutter’s bow bit the water, causing waves to roll away from the ship. Paul estimated it was at its top speed of twenty-nine knots and it wasn’t gaining on the go-fast. If the driver of the other boat was smart, he’d continue on a straight course away from the cutter and take his chances that he could elude the support craft. Paul fitted the binoculars to his eyes again.
While he watched, the skipper of the speedboat cut a sharp turn. The go-fast rose on its starboard side, dumping refuges into the deep water, then it dropped hard and knocked a few more out. “Stupid fool. He nearly capsized that boat.”
“Stupid or effective,” said the captain’s voice from the radio. “He knows we’re going to stop and pick up the swimmers.” As he spoke, the sound of the engines changed and the cutter lost speed. Paul ripped off his night vision goggles and screwed his eyes shut. When he opened them, the spotlight illuminated the people in the water. Paul counted ten and tried to note the position, gender, and age of each. He would captain the recovery boat.
“Stupid,” Paul said again as the speedboat turned and cut back towards the people in the water. “He must have dumped someone from his crew or family.”
The crack of a bullet carried over the water. A soft thud sounded beside Paul. He spun around and looked at the side of the ship behind him. A small black cavity with a shiny center winked in the reflected glare of the spotlights. “We’re taking pistol fire.”
The boat continued to speed toward the cutter. A loud fast booming sounded from the machine gun over their heads. “Belay the weapon fire.” The captain’s voice had a frantic edge. Paul could hear the man thinking he was witnessing the end of his career if the machine gun fire hit a civilian. Especially a civilian in the water.
“We’re taking fire,” the gunner said.
“We have innocents in the water,” the captain’s voice shot back. “You have no authority to fire. You better pray you didn’t hit anyone.”
“No, Sir. I shot over the bow and away from the swimmers. No one was hit.” The gunner’s voice had a hard edge.
The boat cut a sharp turn and rose up on its starboard side again. This time the boat continued on its path and overturned completely.
“Drop the cutter boat,” the captain ordered. “Divers, suit up, now.”
Paul hurried to his boat station ready to board the small rescue boat when it hit the water. Two men in dive gear and an ensign joined him before the boat settled. Together the four men went down the steps and into the boat. With practiced ease, each man balanced the boat for the next man to board. Paul gave a signal and the men on the cutter let loose the lines securing the rescue boat to the larger ship.
“Do you want me to drop you first?” Paul called over his shoulder to the divers. The two men now wearing horse collar flotation devises with tanks strapped on to them nodded. They pulled their masks down over their eyes and sat on the gunnels, ready to do backrolls into the water. “Ensign, keep a sharp eye on the swimmers. If anyone looks like they’re in trouble, toss a life ring and be sure we pick him up first.”
“Him or her, Sir,” the ensign corrected.
Disgusted, Paul turned his head away from the wheel and said, “This is life or death, not political correctness. I don’t care if it’s a dog. We pick him up first.”
In the light of the spotlight, Paul saw the man’s face redden. He shook his head and cut the throttle as they neared the upside down boat. The two divers splashed into the water. Paul counted to ten and throttled up the engine again for the group of swimmers. He counted twenty-five this time. He cut the engine again so the prop blades on the ninety horsepower engine couldn’t do more damage.
“Over there, Sir,” the ensign cried out. “Looks like a group in trouble.”
Paul directed his attention to the group. It looked like a family with yo
ung children. The father was struggling to keep four other people afloat. Moving the boat just above idle speed, he cautiously approached the drowning group. As soon as they were close enough, the ensign tossed two life rings. Paul maneuvered the boat as close as he could. The children continued to cling around the man’s neck, dragging him down. The man reached for the life ring. It slipped from his hand. The stretching movement dislodged one of the youngsters and the child began to sink beneath the water. Paul kicked off his shoes and dove into the sea. The ensign was helping the man and three children on board when two heads popped up near the ladder. The father pushed himself away from the ladder, speaking in rapid Spanish, and kicking for his daughter in Paul’s arms. Understanding the action, if not all the words, Paul held the little girl in his arms and looked into her face. She was silent. In the unnatural light of the spots she looked blue around the lips. The child was unusually heavy for her size. Still in the water, Paul managed to get the child’s legs over the gunnel. The ensign held her while Paul hit her hard between the shoulder blades. She coughed a stream of water over the side and let out a loud wail. At the sound of the cry, the father swam back to the ladder and mounted quickly. Paul followed behind.
“My wife, she still on the boat,” the man cried out as soon as he regained his breath.
Paul and the ensign shared a look. “We have divers down under the boat now, looking for survivors.” Paul said in English. The ensign repeated the words in Spanish.
The man gathered the children to him, kissing each in turn. Then he reached into the plastic diaper cover of the youngest child and pulled out a packet. He held it out to Paul. “Gold, for you to take us to land. Don’t send us back, please.”
